


Sketching Happy Endings with One Final Pose

by Tav



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 17 year old Arthur, 18 year old Eames, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst and Humor, Arthur's POV, First Kiss, M/M, Non-Inception Characters, Out of Character, Pining, mostly for laughs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4905805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tav/pseuds/Tav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The secret object of Arthur's desire becomes the subject of his Art Project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sketching Happy Endings with One Final Pose

**Author's Note:**

> So this story was posted elsewhere (not sure if I took it down properly lol) but it was with original characters. When I was scanning through it I was like, this would be such a cute Arthur/Eames short story, and so what did I do.... I EDITED AND DELIVERED BECAUSE I LOVE THIS FANDOM AND THE READERS AND ARGH!!!
> 
> Hope you enjoy, Feedback always welcome.

Ballerinas were interesting creatures. All their spins and dips and sways contributed to the way the light material moved elegantly with their swan-like forms. Every now and then, when I held my camera at just the right angle, and I snapped at precisely the right time, I would capture an image worth painting. I would get so excited that I couldn’t wait to run down to the schools darkroom, process my film and see how my photographs had come out on my contact sheet.

 

But after a while, painting only ballerinas grew tiresome. There was the odd day that I’d be brave enough to ask an old dude in the park if I could snap him. Sometimes even a homeless person. And it was hard, talking to strangers and all. The main reason I shot so many ballerinas was because my mother taught ballet lessons at my school. And they didn’t talk to me, and I didn’t talk to them. And we got along damn well in audible silence.

 

I usually sat in on most of my mother’s classes. They were right after school and only lasted an hour. Since I was already getting a lift home with my mother, and I didn’t do any sports, it made sense to just sit in. I didn’t do the whole ‘riding the bus’ thing either. Rich, haughty, loud, self-centred high scholars didn’t take too kindly to the lanky, scarf wearing art geek with absolutely no social skills whatsoever.

 

“That’s right girls,” my mother hummed to the children, “Pirouette and hop. Excellent, Megan.”

 

I watched my mother prance around with the seven year old girls. Her hair was a natural blond, braided and twisted into some crazy style that was pinned together with many multi-colored bows. She was petite and rather young looking for her age. Yoga and tofu and dolphin-safe tuna. Early morning runs and bedtime stretches.  That’s what she was about.

 

Principle Miles hated me so much, even before my mother turned him down the five times he’d asked her to dinner. Mom always got asked out. She always declined. She’d only had one boyfriend since my father died. And you couldn’t really call him a boyfriend anyway. They’d only gone on a couple of dates. And she’d only gone along with it to keep her sister quiet. My aunt was relentless on setting her up on the blind date, and she’d almost succeeded.

 

Then mom dumped him after a short while. Her excuse was that she didn’t feel comfortable exposing her boys to a perfect stranger. And of course the man couldn’t be trusted. After all, he  _was_  a church-going, well-groomed, high-bred, university professor. The scoundrel.

 

I was also pretty worried about the whole, mom-not-dating thing. I was seventeen, almost leaving home for college. And my kid brother, Artie was fifteen. Soon he would be gone too. And mom would be alone. I couldn’t have that, but on the other hand I couldn’t play babysitter forever.

 

Snapped from my thoughts when my mother looked at me, I returned her smile.

 

“Keep going ladies,” she beamed as the piano tune kept the girls dancing. She crossed the floor, walking towards to me.

 

“Sweetie, you okay?” she asked me, kneeling, with her arms crossed over my knees from where I sat. “You look a little bored.”

 

“Go do your thing, Ma,” I nodded towards her students, “I’m fine.”

 

“You haven’t even touched your camera once,” she lifted it from where it lay beside me on the bench.

 

“I’ve got that big project from Mr. Yusuf,” I shrugged, “I’m tryna save my film.”

 

She smiled at me again, handing me my camera and getting to her feet. “Go check if your brother’s done. I’m about to finish up here, then we can buy you some more film before heading home.”

*****

 

I walked down the empty school corridors, heading towards the soccer field. I allowed myself to think about the new project Mr. Yusuf had given our art class.

 

We were to get a model, only one person, and draw, sketch and paint that single subject in every single technique we’d ever learned. I’m talking surrealism, abstract, still life, creative, mosaic. The project wasn’t hard and considering we had the entire semester to do it made it even better.

 

 My problem was finding a model. I’d tried Artie, but he couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes. I even did my mother once, but she was worse off than my brother. Plus, I’d drawn them regardless, countless times before. And Mr. Yusuf said that he’d retire if I handed in one more ballerina.

 

So having already wasted a month and a half, wondering how I was going to find someone, I was running out of time. And I was pretty desperate. How would I find someone capable of tolerating me, one on one, for who knows how long?

 

 I reached the soccer field, easily spotting my brother. He looked really happy, running around on the grass field with his teammates. His soccer coach was screaming at him to act civilized, face red, as he threatened all forms of bodily harm on my brother. 

 

I could easily feel sorry for the man, with my brother being the clown that he was. He was naturally the complete opposite of me. Fun, outgoing, spontaneous and would no doubt grow up to be a spitting image of my dad. Which was a good thing, because my dad was a pretty handsome guy, from what I’d seen in numerous photographs.  

 

Artie had just recently colored his blonde hair black. An indigo black that shone blue in the sun. Though it was cropped the same as mine, too long bangs threatening to cover brown eyes and the back touching his collar, the style still effortlessly suited him far better. Everything seemed to.

 

I smiled as my brother did a strange victory dance after scoring a goal. His coach looked close to pulling out the little hair he had left as the other boys laughed and joined in. I sat down, deciding that watching the rest of his practice might be a little more entertaining than watching little girls prancing around.

 

Blending in with the benches, I looked around. Whoever wasn’t running around on the field was either sitting close by, cheering on the friendly practice match or laughing and joking with friends.

 

For a second I almost felt envious. Wondering what it would be like to be them. Popular and all that crap.

 

“Would you rather be one of you or a clone of them?” my mother always said. It was easy for her to say though. She was the weirdest, crazily different woman I knew, yet everyone was still drawn to her. I bet nobody ever wished they were me. No one in the living world, at least.

 

Focusing back on the field, I watched as a few of the older boys came back from their jog around the huge sports field.

 

Against my better judgment, I lifted my camera, aiming my lens at Eames.

 

A couple of years ago, in ‘something-something’ B.C, the Greeks were in the process of revolutionizing humanistic statues as we know it. They succeeded, creating great marble and bronze figures. They portrayed man in godly forms; I’m talking broad shoulders, defined bodies, strong thighs and toned legs.

 

Eames was my idea of a walking Greek sculpture. Of course, when I pictured him while alone in my room, I pictured him packing a lot more baggage below the belt.

 

Eames  had a renaissance structure to his face. His eyes were guarded, and I’d never been close enough to see the color. His hair was dark, seemingly held together by gel. It was tousled and made him look as though he’d just gotten out of bed, but it never changed. I’d stared at him long enough to know all this.

 

His nose was perfect, the slight dent on the bridge only adding to its beauty. When he smiled I got so nervous. Which is really stupid since it was never directed at me. It just came so rarely, like Hailey’s comet, that it was such a thing of beauty.

 

I frowned as I willed my heart to stop pounding in my throat. When the hell had I become such an obsessed, love-sick puppy.

 

I placed my camera back on my lap. I was too far to steal a photo; I’d just be wasting my film. Besides, I had enough good photos of the guy as it was. I’d drawn quite a few too. I’m pretty sure I was just a couple more drawings away from becoming a complete stalker.

 

“Arthur,” I jumped when my brother’s voice was right beside me, “We going now?”

*****

 

Mr. Yusuf was like a  friend. He frowned every time he saw me though, threatening to buy me some sort of ultra-firming gel to keep my hair slicked back during class. He claimed my intrusive ‘blinders’ were the only thing that kept me from drawing to my full potential.

 

I would never cut it though. My black hair covered most of my face from the world, making me feel invisible as I liked it. I always wore hoodies anyway, no matter how hot it got and my beloved green scarf was always around my neck. But my hair made the best barricade.

 

The class sat quietly, heads darting up every other second as we all took down the notes Mr. Yusuf had jotted down on the blackboard. A tap on my shoulder made me look up.

 

“After school,” Mr. Yusuf mouthed, placing my marked essay on my desk and moving to hand out the rest of the papers to the class.

 

 _A,_  I smirked down at the red pen marking on my essay paper,  _not bad_.

 

By the time the bell rang, I’d come up with a few conclusions as to what my teacher wanted to talk to me about.

 

Staying in my seat as the students swarmed out eagerly to begin their weekend, I silently packed my books.

 

Mr. Yusuf swapped a few friendly words of parting with a few students, before closing the door once we were alone. He walked silently in my direction, navigating his way through the cluttered classroom. Choosing the desk in front of me, he sat down on it, planting his feet on the chair. Mr. Yusuf sighed.

 

“Is this about the comic I drew for the school paper?” I asked carefully. “Because drawing Principal Miles with horns and a pitchfork doesn’t necessarily mean I think he’s a bad guy.”

 

“No, it isn’t that.” Mr. Yusuf’s frown faulted and I sensed a hint of a smile. “Although, you did expose the man for not reading the school paper. You would’ve been suspended for sure.”

 

I smiled.

 

“It’s the end of year project that I’m concerned about,” he said and my smile vanished. “Everyone else has already shown me some of they’re stuff. Roughs, plans, layouts…..something. I’ve seen nothing from you. I know I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you, but I do need to crit your progress. You know the whole  _continuous assessment_  thing. I need to give you a mark for that.”

 

“I know, sir.” I sighed.

 

“Then?”

 

“I’m having slight trouble finding a model.”

 

“How ‘bout a relative?”

 

“You said I can’t do my brother and mother anymore. And the only normal relatives I have live outta town.” I shrugged, “My Uncle Max lives close by. At the park actually. He thinks he’s a squirrel. Spends most of his time down there begging for nuts.”

 

I waited a beat as Mr. Yusuf raised a brow, scrutinizing me with a sturdy frown.  I wondered if he believed the bullshit I’d just fed him.

 

“Well, you’ll have to ask a neighbor or something,” he stood. “One of the main challenges of this task is interacting with your subject. Forming work from who they are in different-“

 

“I know, Sir,” I cut in, feeling oddly tired of the same lecture. “I’ll find someone….even if I gotta pay ‘em.” I added the last part quietly.

 

I got the idea that the conversation was over when Mr. Yusuf proceeded to his desk. I made my way to the door slowly.

 

“Oh, and Arthur,” Mr. Yusuf called after me. “I apologize.”

 

I raised a brow. “For what, Sir?”

 

“If I’d known that crazy guy in the park was your uncle, I might’ve given him something.”

 

I grinned, slipping out the class as Mr. Yusuf dismissively sorted through the stack of papers on his desk. 

*****

 

I pitched another frozen pea to my brother and this time he whacked it off somewhere behind the fridge. Mom hated it when we played baseball in the kitchen with food and utensils. She hated it even more if we did it while she was trying to cook supper. But I decided it was okay to continue the game every time her back was briefly turned to us. Then we’d pretend to be innocently sitting around when she turned back around.

 

She also hated it when my brother sat on the kitchen counter, which is why she kept whacking him with the dishtowel when she wasn’t using it to hold a hot pot.

 

“You’re not listening to me, mom,” Artie whined.

 

“Yes I am.”

 

“Not if you’re taking Principal Miles’ side over mine.” He swung the wooden spoon when I threw another pea at him. This time the tiny vegetable fell into the sink.

 

“You made your teacher cry, Artie,” my mother sighed, sounding every bit as exasperated as she looked. She hardly ever looked stressed. But she looked stressed then. “You deserve to be suspended. And don’t think you’re not in trouble by me, ‘cause you are.”

 

Artie and I rolled our eyes. In trouble with mom was more entertaining than scary. She hated punishing us, and we knew it. So she’d make us do something ridiculous, send us to our room for a couple of hours, then come and ask us if we wanted to go for a walk with her or something because she felt she’d been too hard on us. This didn’t mean we took advantage of her, not mom. Yes, we  _were_ playing baseball in the kitchen, and yes, Artie  _was_ still on the kitchen counter…..what do you know, maybe we did.

 

“It wasn’t deliberate.” He shrugged, “she’s way too sensitive. And besides, it’s my constitutional right as a citizen of the community to stand up for what I believe in, like you always tell me to do. So really, you’re the one who should be in trouble, not me”

 

I laughed at the look mom shot over her shoulder at my brother. At least he had the decency to cringe.

 

“I also taught you to respect your teachers,” she countered.

 

“Yeah, right,” Artie mumbled, “was this before or after you told us that schools are brain-washing systems that drain children of all originality and creativity, turning them into brainless robots programmed by ‘the man’.”  

 

I’d decided to join my brother in his accurate quotation of mom. We’d heard it often enough that we knew it off by heart and could do it in perfect unison.

 

“I said no such thing!” she spun on us with a guilty twitch to her lip. Then she looked at me. “And whose side are you on anyway?”

 

“I never really liked Mrs. Nash.” I shrugged.

 

The phone rang just as mom hit me playfully with the towel.

 

“It’s obviously not for any of you losers,” Artie said, leaping off the counter and running out the kitchen.

 

Mom watched after him for a while before sighing and closing her pots. She turned to me.

 

“What?” I asked carefully. She was giving me a sad smile.

 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with that boy,” she walked up to me, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Am I a good mother?”

 

“You’re terrible.”

 

“I think I’m too lenient on you boys,” she frowned, holding me at arm’s length. “Well that’s all gonna change.”

 

“You’re such a drama queen.”

 

“Say goodbye to the old mommy,” she threw her arms up like they would in a bad Shakespearean play, “It’s strictly Hitler from here on.”

 

“Then I shall become Anne Frank and perhaps a pretty boy will fall in love with me.”

 

Mom grinned at me, returning to her pots as Artie re-entered the kitchen.

 

“Hey Artie, Mom’s Hitler, I’m Anne Frank. Who do you want to be?”

 

Artie grinned; walking up to the counter and hopping himself back up there. “Paris Hilton.”

 

Mom and I both looked at him quizzically.

 

“Well then that way I’d just spend all day looking at my naked self in the mirror,” Artie shrugged.

 

I couldn’t help but laugh when Mom threw the dishtowel at him, whacking him square in the jaw. He actually had the audacity to look as though he didn’t have that coming.

 

“Who was that on the phone?” Mom asked him once all laughter had died away.

 

“No one important. When’s dinner gonna be ready?”

 

I gave my brother a measuring look, but decided to ultimately pay attention to what Mom’s answer would be. I was starved.

 

It turned out she’d be done in the next half hour. We spent the next few minutes chatting about what Artie’s punishment would be and about the bill of rights, before mom told us to go wash up for dinner.

 

“By the way, Mom,” Artie said in the doorway. “I think you better get the phone, Principal Miles is still on hold.”

 

I laughed as my mother turned several different shades of red before running after my brother.

*****

 

I loved the smell of the darkroom. The chemicals had a potent musky smell that you could lose yourself in. Then there was the setting. It was…dark. The red light being your only guide. When I tried to concentrate real hard on my piece of white photo paper, the light began to do strange things to my eyes and waves and patterns would form before me.

 

“You are such a stalker.” My best friend stood beside me, watching as the once blank sheet of photo paper slowly became an image of Eames within seconds of drowning it in developer. I smiled, as he made a clicking sound with his tongue. “I mean it. I feel like I have some sort of obligation as a citizen of this town to report you to authorities before you start collecting the boy’s hair.”

 

“I’m not gonna do something stupid like that,” I frowned, feigning disgust, “everybody knows the toenail clippings hold more value.” 

 

I could make out Dom’s smile, features enhanced slightly against the glow of red light.

 

“That’s a good picture.” my friend said, taking over the developer as I moved to the next chemical. “He totally doesn’t deserve your interest, but it’s your life, I guess.”

 

Dom leaned into me pretty obviously from where he stood beside me. His skin was warm, and I could actually feel it since I always took my hoodie off in the darkroom. I took my hoodie off, removed my scarf and even clipped my hair back with one of the clips I stole from my mom’s jewellery box.

 

So when Dom leaned further into me, I could feel the muscle in his arm twitch slightly.

 

I pretended not to notice as I always did and I moved to my last chemical.

 

Dom wasn’t gay. Bi? Maybe. But I honestly thought he was just too curious for his own good. He was an insanely curious person. It’s just the way he was and had been since I’d met him in that very darkroom a year ago.

 

“Is that your girlfriend?” he’d asked me quietly as I pinned up a dripping portrait I’d taken of Ariadne, my brother’s chosen fling at the time.

 

“No,” I’d shrugged casually. “I’m not into girls.”

 

My intention had been for him to leave me alone after that. I’d never seen him before at school, so I guessed he was new and the darkroom was my escape. I didn’t intend on talking to anyone in it. Which is why I usually waited for everyone to leave before I went in. But all I’d succeeded in doing was interesting the boy.

 

“Really? So you’re gay?” He’d asked.

 

“Yep,” I’d nodded. I thought my plan was working.

 

“So you do, like….gay stuff and all?”

 

I’d looked at him with a raised brow. “Yeah. I wear heels and feathered scarves and call everyone Doll.”

 

“Hah.” He’d frowned deep in thought.

 

Then I had had the pleasure of working in silence for the rest of my hour until I began to pack up and head out.

 

“Do you wanna go and get a burger or something?” he’d asked with a grin.

 

Then I’d said yes, only because mom had informed Artie and I that morning that we’d be doing yoga at the beach for an hour once everyone was home. Not to mention, Dom was a very good-looking  guy. Being in his company for a while longer didn’t seem like it was going to kill me. I hadn’t counted on him ultimately becoming my closest friend. My only friend.

 

“So when do you intend on telling Mr. Eames that you wish to be his lawfully wedded wife.”

 

I looked up at Dom who was beside me once again. I shrugged. “When Miles dates my mom.”

 

Dom laughed, dropping his photo over mine in the container filled with fixer. He tended to flirt harder in the darkroom. Something about the solitude I guess. And though I could say it annoyed the hell out of me, I would be lying. And Dom would know I was. Because I’d done next to nothing the entire time we knew each other to make him stop. Something about getting the attention made me feel a little less like me.

 

I stood in front of our simmering images, giving the chemicals enough time to work while I pretended to not pay attention to the way Dom was leaning on the table, letting his other hand slip into my back pocket.

 

He did that type of thing often too.

 

“Eames ’s a prick.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“He looks really boring though.” Dom shrugged, pushing himself completely off the table and walking towards one of the enlargers. He got annoyed really quickly too.

 

“Why do you always do that?” I turned around, watching his back as he rummaged through his stuff in the dark.

 

“What?”

 

“You know I like the guy,” I sighed, “You’ve always known that. But you make it such an issue about it and it’s…it’s just fucking annoying.”

 

Dom turned towards me after a bit. I almost couldn’t see the calm smile on his face as he crossed his hands over his chest.

 

“You annoy the fuck out of me too,” Dom chuckled, “I guess that makes us even.”

*****

 

I hadn’t meant for it to happen. Honest to god, it was a total mistake. But as I turned the corner, I walked right into him. Then my hands and my head decided to stop working together and all I could do was watch as my file fell to our feet. It landed right between us, but not before half its contents flew out.

 

Photos and drawings of Eames fluttered to the ground. All I could do was watch as they each found a place around Eames’ feet.

 

Staring at the pictures was doing me no good. Just standing there was useless too. I braved a quick glance up at him, and that was even worse. Eames was still looking down at his feet, supposedly wondering why, and where the hell all those pictures of him had come from.

 

Eames   finally looked up. Our eyes locked. I was fucking numb. He was damn unreadable. But he was also really close. And he smelt way too good. Not to mention, his eyes were so intense. And they were blue! With specs of green.  And just staring at him was making me feel like throwing up, because, he saw my pictures. He knew. And he was just staring at me. And I could have totally dealt with that, if a frown didn’t slowly begin to crease his beautiful brows.

 

 “I’m sorry,” I choked out; stepping passed him, totally walking over all my pictures and escaping in a fast paced walk.

 

I didn’t look back. Because I didn’t have the balls to do that. I’d probably be living in Canada within the week anyway. So getting one last look at Eames  seemed absolutely useless

*****

 

“Could you just leave me the fuck alone?!?” I snapped at Artie. He totally didn’t disserve it. And I totally sucked for taking my anger out on him. But he was irritating the hell out of me and I was still shaking.

 

 Mom looked at me through the rear-view mirror, while Artie took off his seatbelt, and turned fully around, kneeling in the passenger seat to better look at me in the back.

 

“Mom,” Artie said to my mom while looking at me. “Your eldest son is going through a midlife crisis. Want me to phone a doctor?”

 

“Sit down, Artie,” mom tugged at his shirt.

 

I was looking out the window, but I could feel my brother’s eyes still on me. It only lasted a while longer, before he obeyed my mother and dropped himself back down.

 

“PMS?” Artie mumbled, changing the song on mom’s car radio. Mom continued to look from me to the road. Every time I looked up, our eyes locked in the mirror for a brief second before I stared back out the window.

 

“Artie, please.” Mom scolded gently.

 

Artie sighed, sparing me a small glance over his shoulder.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

 

“Arthur, he apologized.” Mom said.

 

“Mmmh,” I hummed. “It’s okay.”

*****

 

There wasn’t a single white spot on the wall in my room. Pictures and photos and things that held my interest covered the entire vicinity. I’d started on that since I was ten, pinning up a picture randomly. I hadn’t intended on it becoming my own personal mosaic wallpaper, but I loved it.

 

My floor was also pretty cluttered. Which is why when my brother walked into my room, he almost tripped twice before making it to my bed.

 

I’d been lying there the entire time since we’d arrived home from the mall. I hated the mall. You’d never find me there unless I was in the art store or photo shop.

 

“Okay,” Artie sighed, “spill. Tell Uncle Artie all that’s on your mind.”

 

I looked up; he was sitting cross-legged at the bottom of my bed. Then I dropped my head back on my pillow.

 

“Eames.” I said simply.

 

“The Brit?” Artie asked, seemingly more interested than before. Artie didn’t know I liked the guy. Mom did, but I hadn’t told Artie yet. He had the tendency of trying to hook me up with my crush, no matter how straight they were. “What about him?”

 

“I….I ran into him at the mall.” I sighed. “Literally.”

 

I’d closed my eyes, so when I felt the bed dip beside me, I knew he was doing that thing where he studies me doesn’t blink for an hour.

 

“And?” Artie prolonged the word when he could tell I wasn’t going to continue. I sighed again.

 

“He knows I….well….he knows.” I said. I hoped that would be enough.

 

“Oh.” Artie said, thoughtfully. I loved the way he knew he didn’t have a good enough attention span to ask for details. “You know, he’s asked about you.”

 

That certainly got my attention, and I was sitting up in no time. “What?”

 

“Yeah,” Artie was studying his nails, annoyingly calm in a situation like this. “A couple times.”

 

“You two speak?”

 

“We play soccer,” he shrugged, “We have practice. We have camps. We have meetings, of course we speak.”

 

I rolled my eyes. Artie was being modest again, which was an act very rare in itself. He was incredibly popular. That’s how he knew everyone and everyone knew him. Which is why I felt kind of stupid for not assuming he knew Eames.

 

“What did he ask you?” I asked, succeeding in not sounding too eager.

 

“Asked if  _that dork_  was my brother,” he shrugged, “the usual.”

 

I dropped myself back down on the bed.

 

“What? Why do you even care what Britania thinks of you anyway?” My brother asked.

 

“You know that file I never let you see?”

 

“Oh please,” Artie scoffed, “I’ve seen it hundreds of times. I was waiting for you to fess up.”

 

I would’ve gone all crazy on my brother right then, but I remained as calm. At least it saved me from elaborating the entire story.

 

“So,” Artie continued, “Eames knows you’re a stalker. He doesn’t know how much of a stalker you are, but the implications are there.”

 

“Thank you so much for rubbing it in right now.”

 

“I’m actually about to get to a point if you shut up for a second.” Artie sounded offended that I’d actually doubted him. “Where was I? Oh yes. You, on the other hand, are still totally crazy about the guy and possibly currently contemplating moving to Africa and changing your name.”

 

“Canada, not Africa.” I mumbled. “But that’s actually a better idea; I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

“Please, stop interrupting me.” Artie frowned. “So, since he knows, and you know. And he knows you know and you know he knows-”

 

“Yeah, I get it. We all know.”

 

Artie glared at me venomously for interrupting him again.

 

“Why don’t you just,” he prolonged the last word as if to add dramatic effect, “talk to the guy. Explain to him, you’re not a psychopath…anymore. Explain to him that the straightjacket looked terrible on you which is why they let you go.”

 

“Get out of my room,” I said simply.

 

“No, wait. Fine, I’m sorry.” Artie sighed. “I was actually just tryna cheer up a brother.”

 

I almost smiled. Artie always said stuff like that.

 

“But I’m serious,” Artie continued again, “at least talk to the guy.”

 

We both sighed in perfect unison. I hated it when my brother was serious, I’m sure he hated it even more. But, maybe on some absolutely small scale…and I do mean  _absolutely_ , he was right.

 

The knock on my door drew us both from our thoughts. My mother always did that. Knock twice; don’t even wait for a response, and open. It annoyed the shit out of me, but to her defence, she did inform me that, if it’s private, I’d lock the door. And that was true on some level because I had a door and a lock and the capability of using them both.

 

“You boys okay?” she chimed, sticking her head through the crack in the door.

 

“Well, I am,” Artie stated. It was obvious in itself that he was suggesting that I wasn’t. My mother picked up on that. She may have been toying with the notion since the time I went off on my brother in the car. It hardly ever happened that I went off on him or he went off on me. Sarcasm was the bases of our arguments. And I mean the real serious ones. When other families would be cussing and throwing chairs and suing, we’d just drop a few sardonic lines and be done with it.

 

“Could you come and help me make dinner?” she asked,

 

Her idea of us helping her make dinner was by my brother and I sitting in the kitchen, talking to her while she toiled over pots. Every time we offered a slight bit of assistance, she would swat our hands away and carry on.

 

“Yeah, okay.” I said, dutifully pushing myself off the bed, not waiting for my brother to follow.

*****

 

Eames  was an absolute asshole. Only because he did strange things to my psyche and he knew it. And I’d only ever stood in front of him twice. Once, when I dropped my stupid file in front of him, and now.

 

He was just watching me, staring me down like before. The scene was set differently though. We weren’t in a crowded mall like before. This time we were at school, with learners still humming, bells still ringing and with him still smelling frustratingly good.  

 

I’d conveniently used the school’s side exit like I always did, because hardly anyone used it. The risk of running into Principal Miles there was pretty high. It was so close to his office. But at that moment, Principal Miles could go to hell because Eames was standing in front of me. And I’d never seen him use that exit before. And that probably meant he sought me out. And I felt sick.

 

He dropped his blue-green eyes, possibly to the ground. I knew he was about to say something because his lips were parted. His gorgeous, pink, full, wet lips. But I wondered if I wanted to stay to hear it.

 

I didn’t have much choice though, with him standing in the doorway and all.

 

“Do you…” he began, brow creasing harder. And his voice was so deep and hoarse and distracting with that unfair accent. “Do you have a sec?”

 

 _Do I have a sec?_ He was asking me if I had a second. I had plenty of those, depending on how you looked at it.

 

Still, I nodded. Even though my heart was literally clogging up all oxygen flow with the way it pounded in my throat. Again.

 

He nodded too, and then walked off. Okay, now what? Was I supposed to follow him? Watch him go? Because I was damn good at doing that.

 

He stopped, looked back, and I took that as a silent statement for me to follow him. I was probably right since he proceeded the second I was a foot behind him.

*****

 

“I’m missing football practice and I’m gonna be in a load of shit for that,” Eames mumbled. “I can’t go home because my dad will go mental on my arse for giving it a skip.”

 

I was fiddling with my long sleeves, staring at my hands. I stole a quick glance at Eames’ hands. They were big and his fingers were long and they were drumming on the steering wheel.

 

“So the least you could do is feed me or something,” he continued.

 

This time I actually looked at him and he was able to look at me because the light was still red.

 

“Do you have a house?” he asked. And oh my god, the question seemed like such a hard one at the time. A house? A house?

 

“A home, a dwelling,” he was suddenly looking at me as if I was crazy, talking as if I were mental. “a habitat, an abode, a residens-“

 

“Yes.” I said. Only because if I didn’t I was pretty sure he was going to go on forever.

 

“Oh, he speaks,” Eames said, with just the smallest smirk on his face. And where the hell was my damn camera? He smiled at me. Sure, he was teasing me, but that didn’t matter because he smiled. At me.

 

“Among other things,” I mumbled.

 

“Think it would be okay if I stayed over for a bit. At your place, I mean.” Then he shrugged, “you sort of owe it to me anyway.”

 

“You can come….to my place, that is.” I was blushing furiously and I knew he could see it.

 

“Do you want to tell me where it is?” Eames said.

 

“Harrow Rd,” I cleared my throat. “Its near-”

 

“I know that street,” he cut in.

 

Eames took off rather fast when the light turned green.

*****

 

I was watching him eat. There’s no possible way I could swallow at that moment, and I wasn’t about to make a fool out of myself by trying.

 

Eames was eating pretty quickly too. Doubt he was even chewing at all. My mother didn’t allow meat in the house, so the best I could do for him was a tuna salad sandwich. He stuffed the last bit into his mouth before eyeing my untouched sandwich. I pushed it over to him and he nodded his thanks.

 

“I’ve got your file in my boot,” he said, before taking a bite of my sandwich. I’d thought I was safe from speech for another minute, what with him eating and all. In fact, I was fully prepared to keep feeding him if it meant we would just not talk about my stupid file.

 

“Oh,” was all I could say. I moved my hands off the table and onto my lap so only I could see them shake.

 

He dropped his food on the plate, sitting back in his chair slowly. I knew I was going to get it then.

 

“‘Oh’,” he scoffed, “is that all you’re gonna say? ‘Oh’.”

 

“Well,” I began slowly, “could I have it back, maybe?”

 

“God, you’re impossible.” Eames crossed his arms, looking around himself.

 

“What am I supposed to say?” I mumbled a hint louder, only because his voice was noticeably louder as well.

 

“How’s about an explanation,” Eames frowned, “because I for one am bloody confus-”

 

“You….you have a…an interesting face, that’s all.” I sighed, because he was quiet and waiting and I was going at this all wrong.

 

“An interesting face?” he repeated. And that damn smirk was back, only barely. I nodded. “Carry on then.”

 

“My art teacher gave us this stupid project,” I shook my head. “And well, you have an interesting face, so I thought what the hell? Why not?”

 

“You’re making no sense right now,” his smirk was gone.

 

“Fuck,” I cursed, standing up and pacing the kitchen. “What do  _you_ think I mean?”

 

“I  _don’t_  know what you mean.” Eames shrugged. “But I do know those pictures are pretty good. Very good actually. You’re good. They’re quite a lot, but, they’re good.”

 

“It’s for the art project that-“

 

“Hey,” Eames frowned, “I just paid you a compliment. This is where you thank me.”

 

“Thank you,” I sighed.

 

“Now,” he made himself comfortable and gestured for me to take a seat, “tell me ‘bout this project.”

****

 

“Eames, huh?” Mr. Yusuf raised a brow.

 

“Eames.” I confirmed. I tried to keep up with him as we walked down the school corridor. We were carrying heavy boxes of equipment from his car in the teachers’ parking lot, to his classroom. I was pretty tired after going back and forth at least four times.

 

 “The sports boy?” Yusuf pushed on.

 

“The one and only.”

 

“And he’s been modelling for you?”

 

“Every other day for two weeks now.”

 

“Willingly?”

 

“No.” I rolled my eyes. “I knock him out with my mallet and drag him home.”

 

Mr. Yusuf gave me a warning look over his shoulder, and then smiled.  “I never pegged you two as friends.”

 

“I don’t think we are,” I said simply. I dropped the box as soon as we entered his classroom. “It just, sorta happened.”

 

Mr. Yusuf placed his load down with a heavy sigh. He kneeled down and began to open his box up. I did the same.  “What’s in it for him?”

 

“A free lunch and a study buddy,” I shrugged. “He hates History, so we go through modules and stuff. And, he doesn’t talk much about it, but I’ve got the feeling that he doesn’t really like being at home.”

 

“Hmm.” Mr. Yusuf raised a brow, analysing me as he rummaged through his box. “Well, I’m just glad you’re getting your work done.”

 

I grinned, sorting through paints and turps as I thought of nothing more than my afternoon to come with Eames.

*****

 

My paper was set on my drawing desk; a quick glance up showed me that Eames was restless once again. He was pacing up and down with his hands in his back pockets, head down. I didn’t mind just yet since I was still sharpening my pencil. But he was still putting me slightly on edge with all the moving around.

 

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

 

He stopped, looked at me with a blank expression, and then sat down on my bed.

 

“I’m not here, am I?” he sighed. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

 

He ran his hand over his face, and my god, he was beautiful. Hair tousled as usual,  eyes seemingly smaller from stress. His t-shirt was clinging to his body like they always did, black jeans almost as tight.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked carefully.

 

We’d spoken a lot in the past month, apart from all the studying. Mom had even made him stay for dinner a couple of times when my drawing ran longer than I’d expected. Artie and Eames seemed to have a lot more to talk about than Eames and I, and it was mainly my fault. I still got slightly choked up around the guy. And then mom did this thing where she’d ask him personal questions and I’d absolutely want to hide under the table because everyone, but mom, noticed how incredibly embarrassed he was. Artie would laugh real hard and I’d look for some way to save Eames, short of telling my mother to shut up.

 

He’d still answer her questions as best he could, with a furious blush and a nervous smile.

 

Eames lay down on my bed, his t-shirt rising slightly higher when he put his arms behind his head. I sighed.

 

“Would you really want to listen?” he shook his head.

 

“We do have a lot of time,” I shrugged. “You can just lie down, keep still and pretend I’m your shrink.”

 

He sat up, a small grin on his face. “How do you want me to pose this time?”

 

I thought about it for a second. We’d covered pretty much everything. I suggested a pose to him, but he shot it down.

 

“No,” he shook his head. “That’s been done. It’s pretty boring too.”

 

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

 

I watched as he stood and began to rearrange my pillows on my bed.

 

“Got any more of these?” Eames asked, holding a pillow up. “Cushions will work too.”

 

“Okay,” I raised a questioning brow at him as I left the room. “I’ll be right back.”

 

I returned a minute later with every pillow and cushion I could find in the house. Eames took some from me and continued his work.

 

“I think my father is having an affair,” Eames suddenly said, taking the last pillows from me. It was easy to see what he was doing now, making a couch-like half circle on my bed.

 

“Uh,” it took me a while to register his words. “Why, do you think that?”

 

“Hushed phone calls, late nights, the usual.” Eames shook his head. He finished what he was doing and took a step back to take a better look. “What do you say we do the whole Titanic thing…without the death at the end?”

 

“Titanic?” I asked, genuinely confused.

 

“Yeah, Titanic. Ship, sinking. Leo DiCaprio, Kate Winslet.” He looked at me funny. “Titanic.”

 

I had a strong feeling I was supposed to know what he was talking about and I would look like a complete idiot if I didn’t. I could’ve pretended to know, but that would get me nowhere since I had absolutely no idea.

 

“Uh, you’ve kinda lost me.” I admitted.

 

And there you go, his mouth dropped and I totally felt like the most idiotic person on earth. Especially when he began to laugh.

 

Eames doesn’t laugh. Well, I’d never seen it happen, not as hard as he was laughing right then. He was even holding his stomach and when he spoke again his voice was a pitch higher than I’d ever heard.

 

“You’re not kidding, aren’t you?” he asked, laugh dying down. He stopped laughing completely when I quietly moved to take my seat behind my desk. “I’m sorry; It’s just…every single person I’ve ever known has watched the movie. Even my dog’s seen it, like, three times.”

 

“We don’t really watch TV,” I shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t think my family was totally weird if I told the truth. “It’s just not something we….my mom is kinda against it.”

 

“Oh,” he was quiet for a while. “I just …I guess I just assumed, you know, you have a television downstairs and-“

 

“It’s not like we never  _ever_  use it,” I shrugged again. “My ma even uses the VCR sometimes for her yoga tapes. And she sometimes makes my brother and I do Taebo with her.”

 

Eames was nodding thoughtfully, watching me pretty intensely.

 

“Well, it’s okay,” he did that tiny smirk thing and he had no idea how incredibly sexy he looked right then. “Not everyone’s gotta…well, you know…”

 

“I know.”

 

We were both quiet for a while, a pretty awkward silence.

 

“Do you still want to do it anyway?” he asked, voice lower.

 

“The Titanic thing?” I asked. “Yeah, sure.”

 

“Okay.” He nodded, taking a deep breath.

*****

 

I hadn’t been expecting it. I had been sorting through my pencils, making sure all were sharp from 4H to 6B one second, and then the next, I was looking up, watching Eames undress in front of me.

 

I totally froze.

 

His shirt was on the ground before I could even think to ask him what he was doing. I knew what he was doing, but I was just having difficulty grasping the entire concept of the situation. And I was far beyond shocked by the black ink decorating his chest. I’d never pictured him having tattoos but as soon as I laid eyes on the unreadable script and distracting swirls, I was sure I would never be able to envision him any other way. Almost as if he was born that way.

 

My body reacted instantly. I shifted in my seat, shaking nervously, unable to do anything more than stare.

 

Eames unbuttoned his jeans, pulling the zipper down slowly. I swallowed audibly and his eyes shot up to mine.

 

“You sure no one’s home?” he asked, that stupid, stupid smirk touching his features. And all I could do was figure out how exactly I was supposed to speak English right then.

 

“Uh, my…mother’s at, um, soccer practice.” I choked out, “And my….Artie is at ballet.”

 

He raised a brow, nodded and then proceeded.

 

Eames kicked off his shoes, hooking his thumbs in the loops of his jeans before pulling them down. He worked them around his ankle, pulling his socks off in the process.

 

Eames straightened up, only for a second, before pulling his boxers down.

 

And there it was. Eames, in the flesh. Literally.

 

He stood there, with such poise and confidence that one would think  _I_  was the naked one and  _he_  was fully clothed. I braved a glance up at his face and I probably shouldn’t have, because he was grinning. At least he had the decency to blush.

 

“Try everything once, I always say.” he shrugged, before moving to position himself on my bed.

 

A naked, very naked, Eames, lying on my bed. I felt a little lightheaded. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to draw at all. But then, he spoke.

 

“So anyway,” he cleared his throat. “I questioned him. I said, Dad, what’s going on?”

 

“Uh-huh,” I nodded, lifting up my pencil with a shaky hand and waiting for him to get comfortable. This didn’t seem weird to him. Even if it was, he wasn’t letting on. Because apart from the furious blush that wouldn’t go away, he was acting as casual as ever.

 

“My dad was like; it’s none of my business.” He put his hands behind his head, body stretching out. His chest looked hard and defined. Light muscle dusted his stomach. And I couldn’t get over how perfect the rest of him was. This was, Eames  . Naked, in my room. On my bed. “And I told him it is my business. I am an equal member of the family. Am I right?”

 

I raised my pencil, willing my arm to stop shaking as I measured the length of his body. It was procedure. Before drawing, even before the construction lines, you were to check how many times the length of the head, fit into the length of the rest of your models body. But it seemed so much harder now. Especially with my eyes wanting to, but fighting not to openly focus on his lap. When my own lower half got the better of me and I looked back at his, my heart quickened by the fact that he wasn’t completely soft anymore.

 

“Arthur?” I was snapped from my dangerously colorful thoughts, “Are you even listening to me?”

 

“Yeah… yeah,” I shook my head. “Continue.”

 

“I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

 

“No, I’m just….” I sighed. “I’m just, a little tired, I guess.”

 

“Should we take a break?”

 

“No!” I said a little too quickly. Not to mention, too loudly too. “I am…so good right now.”

 

Eames nodded. He sighed low, shifting his hips to get comfortable. And I really wished he’d stop doing that, because it was driving me absolutely crazy.

 

I began to draw, moving my pencil over my page. It made that scratchy sound like always, except now it sounded a lot louder. And irritating.

 

We sat in silence for the next few minutes. Those minutes felt like hours, but a quick glance at the alarm-clock on my nightstand showed otherwise.

 

He shifted again, this time a little more. Then he shifted once more.

 

“Something wrong?” I cleared my throat.

 

“It’s this pillow behind me,”he shifted again for safe measure, “maybe you could get it for me.”

 

Bad idea.

 

“Okay.” I mumbled, wondering how I was supposed to accomplish such an  _easy_  task like that.

 

I stood up, taking a quick glance down. Shit, I was pretty obvious, but only if one looked there. And, why would he look there, right?

 

There was a painful strain in my thighs, and it was so damn irritating. But I still managed to make it to my bed without tripping over anything. He shifted forward so I could better reach behind him and the feel of his skin when I actually touched it, burned so hard I actually thought I was going insane.

 

With my hand behind him, lodged between the cushions and his back, I moved my hand around slowly.

 

“Which one is it?” I asked.

 

“A little lower,” he said, and I have no idea why, but my eyes shot to his. Like I thought, he was smiling. That smirk thing again. And from up close, his lips looked a lot fuller. And my heart was beating so fast right then, because he was smiling. “You’ve almost got it.”

 

He had no idea.

 

I moved my hand lower, our eyes never faltering. With complete minds of their own, my fingers splayed out over his lower back as my hand moved down.

 

“Arthur,” he spoke with a noticeable sigh, “what’s the real reason you drew all those pictures of me? I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, I need you tell me the truth.”

 

I froze for two seconds. Did he honestly have to ask that question right then, when he was naked and I was hard and I was touching him. He had terrible timing.

 

I willed myself to move away, it was hard, but I managed. I didn’t get very far though, not with how quickly Eames moved. His hand was on my arm in record time. And he was holding me there.

 

“You didn’t answer my question,” he spoke so low that I could barely hear him. I thought I was imagining for a second, which is why I resisted at first, but he was pulling me down. He was pulling me down over him.

 

He shifted onto his back, everything happening dangerously slowly. And I threw my one leg over him until I was straddling his waist. Our eyes still locked.

 

I desperately wanted to think, I needed to think. About anything apart from what was happening right then, because I was shaking and his eyes were demanding. The crease in his brow deepened as he moved the hand that wasn’t digging into my arm, to my face. With his palm on my jaw, he stroked my cheek with his thumb.

 

I let out the breath I’d been holding, shifting over him as he shifted beneath me. And I could feel his hardness pressing against me, not quite sure when he had gone from noticeable to throbbing. Hoping he wouldn’t notice my transition from throbbing to leaking.

 

I waited for his next move, because I had only  _one_ thing on my mind. And it had been there ever since he took his clothes off. Ever since he started coming to my house. Ever since I first laid eyes on Eames .

 

“Fuck,” he cursed, closing his eyes. “Answer my bloody question.”

 

“Isn’t  _this_  answer enough for you?” I mumbled, wondering how on earth my mind formed those words all by itself. How the hell did I even manage saying such a thing, it totally wasn’t me. I didn’t talk like that. I didn’t have naked boys in my room. I just….didn’t.

 

“Arthur, please,” Eames murmured, and when the words brushed against my mouth, I wondered when I’d moved so closed to him. “Please don’t….don’t tell my dad.”

 

I didn’t have time to think about how ridiculous it was for him to say something like that. His mind was obviously racing with a hundred and one things the same way mine was.

 

I breathed out harshly through my nose when my lips came over his, mind taking leave when he made a sound. Something akin to a whimper. Eames whimpered. Oh my fuck.

 

Eames moved his hand through my hair, clenching a bunch of it in his fist. I could feel him tugging, almost painfully, but I really didn’t give a shit right then.

 

“My dad’s gonna kill me,” he pulled back briefly, lips still touching, “he’s gonna know, and he’s gonna kill me.”

 

I started to back away slowly, only because I thought that’s what he wanted. But he only pulled me back. Thank god he pulled me back.

 

“I think he’s in-” my brother stopped talking, his hand still on the doorknob, his mouth falling open.

 

“Fuck!” I heard Eames curse beneath me. He instantly pulled me more over him, in effort to bury himself further away.

 

“Get out Artie!” I yelled.

 

“I’m sorry, I was just…” A mischievous smile was forming on his face and I made a mental note to shoot him a little later for that.

 

“Get the fuck out of here!” I yelled again, louder this time.

 

“Okay, I’m leaving.”

 

“Now!”

 

“Okay!” Artie had the nerve to make it out as if  _I_ was the one being the unreasonable. “Nice to see you again, Eames.”

 

I closed my eyes, fighting the growing urge I had to beat the shit out of my brother right then. I heard the door shut, and I let out a breath. I was just about to relax a little before I was almost instantly pushed off my bed. It wasn’t a long drop to the ground, but it hurt nonetheless.  
I was still trying to grasp everything that had happened, and it was hard enough without getting thrown to the ground. Eames was moving really fast, picking up his discarded clothes and pulling them on one by one. I knew I had to say something. Just, like always, I had no idea what it was.

 

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, slowly pushing myself to my feet as he finished buttoning up his jeans. He spared me a brief glance before throwing on his shirt.

 

“This…” he paused after picking up his shoes, not bothering to put them on. “This never happened.”

 

And then he was gone.

 

*****

 

The Valedictory ceremony for the twelfth graders wasn’t as long as I thought it would be. Eames stood up on stage, hands held in front, and all I could do was think about the last thing he’d said to me three months ago. When I thought about it, it stung.

 

When Eames had said those words to me, I’d assumed he meant a lot of things. First, I thought maybe he meant that my brother never caught us. Then, I thought he meant the kissing scenario never happened. But after being blatantly ignored and passed by at school the next day, I realized he meant that the entire thing never happened. From the moment I dropped my file in the mall, and the moment he ate that tuna sandwich in my kitchen, to the moment my lips touched his. Everything, to him, just never happened.

 

And sometimes, in the cafeteria, or in the corridor, our eyes would meet for a fleeting second. And everything would come rushing back with a tiny hint of hope. Then he’d blink, and the moment would pass. And it would all be gone and Eames would pass by me with his group of friends, laughing and joking, not paying me the slightest bit of anything as if I were completely transparent.

 

I hated him for a while. I hated him so much. Hell, I’d fallen for a couple of guys in my school, stupid crushes that came and went. Eames was different. He’d kissed me and I’d kissed him and we’d had, what I thought was an insanely intense moment. Then he’d forgotten me and I’d been left with a serious dent in my heart. And it hurt so bad, that I allowed myself to hate him so much.

 

Then Artie hated him too, and so did mom. And I had to love them because they’d adjusted to my insane mood swings like only true family could, over the past few months.

 

Then there was Dom, who just kept keeping on with his persistent annoying self. And though I didn’t tell him anything that happened, every time I cursed Eames’ name, he would smile and it would briefly make me feel better.

 

When I walked into class and stood in the line that my classmates had formed, I held my art project firmly in my hands. Mr. Yusuf had made himself clear. On that day, we were to form a line and hand our projects in, even before greeting him.

 

“Whoever doesn’t have their project should not even bother being in my class right now,” was what he’d said.

 

So I inched forward every time someone moved out of the line. And once I was at his desk, he looked up at me. I gave him a half smile before dropping my portfolio on the pile in front of him.

 

He flipped through it like he had done with all the other students as well. And then a frown creased his brow.

 

“What happened to Eames?” he asked, looking down, once again at the portfolio, full of pictures of my friend, Dom.

 

I grinned slightly, thinking for a while, before I told him. “It never happened.”

*****

 

I tossed a frozen carrot at my brother, one of those tiny ones. He whacked it so hard that it knocked against the window and fell into mom’s boiling pot. I winced, waiting for mom to shout, but she never did. She surprisingly hadn’t even noticed since she kept talking and cooking without missing a beat.

 

“Boys, you’re not listening to me,” mom frowned, throwing a bit more parsley into her pot.

 

“Of course we are, Ma,” Artie said, from atop the kitchen counter.

 

“Never stopped, Ma,” I added, right after him.

 

“So then, what do you think?” she asked, placing her spoon down and wiping her hands on her apron.

 

I had no idea what she was talking about, I hadn’t been listening. I looked to my brother who looked at me equally obliviously.

 

“Could you just repeat the last part?” Artie asked, holding his chin thoughtfully and nodding his head. Good act.

 

“I said,” Mom began, “once again, your principal asked me to go out with him for dinner, and this time I said yes. Then I asked if you two are okay with it.”

 

“Abso-fucking-lutely not!” Artie exclaimed without missing a beat. “No! Never, not even slightly. Just….no!”

 

“I think you should go, Mom” I said, trying on a smile. I made a point of speaking before my mother scolded my brother for his colorful choice of language.

 

Both my mother and my brother looked me in complete astonishment. My brother was frowning while my mothers’ brow was raised.

 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Artie drawled.

 

“Arthur?” mom smiled, “what’s gotten into you?”

 

I shrugged, avoiding my brother’s deliberate, icy glare.

 

“Well, Ma,” I sighed, “we’re gonna be out the house soon….leaving for, god knows where. I don’t want you to be alone.”

 

Mom smiled harder, one of those, I-could-kiss-you-right-now smiles.

 

“And though,” I added quickly, before either could speak, “I would prefer it not to be Principal Miles, if it makes you happy, it makes me happy. And I know in time, it will make Artie happy too.”

 

Mom was downright grinning now and Artie looked too stunned to speak. I was sure I disserved a medal of some kind for that. It was not often that anyone could shock my brother into silence.

 

There was a knock at the door, and I was happy for the interruption, because the room had become painfully silent.

 

“It’s obviously not for any of you losers,” Artie spat, as he leaped off the counter and went to the door. 

 

“Thank you, Arthur.” Mom continued to smile at me from across the kitchen. And I actually felt slightly uncomfortable. “Your brother will forgive me eventually, won’t he?”

 

“He always does,” I shrugged.

 

“Hey Doofus,” Artie said as he walked back into the kitchen. “It’s for you.”

 

I frowned, and I was about to ask him questions, but Artie immediately began interrogating our  mother.  Almost deliberately turning his back to me. I wondered if he’d forgive  _me_  anytime soon for ditching his ‘hate-Miles’ army.

 

I was just about to dwell on it completely, while walking to the door, until I actually saw who was standing there.

 

I froze.

 

“I remembered….” Eames paused, taking a deep breath before holding a video tape up. “It’s Titanic. I remembered that you hadn’t watched it and so I thought I might get it for you.” He shrugged nervously before continuing. “I’ve been through just about every store in the city, it was really hard to….find it, especially on VHS.”

 

Eames eyes met mine and I held his gaze. My eyes narrowed on their own accord.

 

“I’ll totally understand if you- I mean,” he shook his head. “You don’t have t-”

 

“Are you gonna come in?” I asked, stepping aside, giving him room to enter.

 

He looked almost confused for a second before looking down and stepping into my house.

 

We could deal with all the complications later; I could even deal with my family and friend questioning me as to why the hell I let Eames in. But right then, with everything else aside….My past hatred aside and my resentment aside.  My family aside and all that came with it. With the never-ending emotions I still felt for him, and the undying lust. The truth was, I still hadn’t watched the damn movie. And if that single feature was the cause of getting Eames, naked on my bed, kissing me, I have to admit that it was certainly worth a watch.

 

 


End file.
